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“Louiiiiis,” Harry whines, “c’mon, why do you hate my amazing roof garden? Why do you hate me and want to ruin everything that is right and good?”
“Harryyy,” Louis says into the phone, making her voice high and nasal. “You’re obsessed with your fucking garden -”
“- because it’s perfect and brilliant -”
“- and I’m busy! Working!”
That is a lie. Louis is sitting in her pants reading ohnotheydidnt and eating tepid, half-melted dairylea triangles straight from the box. Harry’s roof garden sounds pretty excellent, actually, but Louis can see sunshine through the gap in her curtains, and Harry and sunshine and Harry’s secluded roof garden means only one thing:
“Sunbathing, Louis. It’s so nice up there. Come over, drink wine, I’ll put the barbeque on for lunch if you bring some sossies.”
Sossies. Harry is too much. Louis stuffs another dairylea into her mouth and flips the duvet off her sweaty legs, resigned to her fate.
“Ugh, fine.”
“Yes!” Harry says. Louis doesn’t even need to see her to know she’s doing a mini-fistpump and this, this is the person she’s going to put herself through an afternoon of sweet torture for.
She can’t say no to a good sausage butty though, and isn’t that the height of irony?
-
The problem, really, is Harry’s tumultuous relationship with clothes. Underwear, precisely.
Bras, apparently are “constricting”, “useless”, and “awful, Louis, I can’t bloody breathe in them”, and the best Louis can ever hope for is that she’ll be wearing one of them soft cotton bralet things that mostly contain her little tits and stop them… bouncing. Shifting about under the loose cotton t-shirts she likes to wear, nipples rubbing against the fabric and Louis thinks she might actually just be one more sheer blouse away from breaking.
Because Harry’s roof garden, shielded by a few well-placed trees, means Harry can wear whatever Harry likes, and whatever Harry likes usually has Louis choking on her own tongue.
She showers quickly, wriggles into the first cossie she finds at the bottom of her pants drawer, and pulls on some trackies and a vest. Harry only lives a couple of tube stops away but Louis stuffs her hair under a hat and finds the biggest pair of sunnies she can; she’s feeling on edge, doesn’t fancy being stopped by anyone.
-
Looking back, Louis can pinpoint the exact moment.
Day two of her hangover, defenceless and caught unawares in Tesco, clutching a family size bag of Chilli Heatwave Doritos and 2 litres of Coke. She’s unprepared, blearily shuffling towards the checkouts, staring blankly at the magazine rack.
HARRY BARES ALL! SAUCY PICS INSIDE!
There’s a saucy pic on the front as well; Harry stepping into a taxi, mouth a grinning slash of red. There’s a shocked emoji pasted over one nipple, the see-no-evil monkey over the other, and Louis stares. The shirt is just. Not even trying. It’s black and buttoned right up to Harry’s neck in some sort of parody of prudishness and Louis’ eyes are stuck on those little emojis, how they cover nothing of the sweet, weighty curve of her little tits through the sheer fabric.
“Excuse me. Excuse me, miss!”
The cashier gives Louis a little wave, and without thinking much about it Louis grabs Heat and stuffs it in her basket next to the doritos.
It’s almost a sense memory, the sick hot excitement and shame all tangled up together until Louis finally chucked the magazine into her recycling. Then seeing Harry a few weeks later, seeing her smile, her generous mouth, her long-fingered hands and thinking, oh.
Oh.
-
“Ooh, Tesco’s Finest, aren’t we feeling fancy?”
“Shut it, they’re nice. You’d better have been serious about cooking them for me, it’s the only reason I came.”
Harry gives her a friendly shove. She’s wearing some sort of shapeless sack dress thing that probably cost about a thousand quid, and Louis feels slightly less frantic, slightly more able to shove back, poke her in the ribs, quickly escalating things into a squealing playfight.
“Mercy!” Harry shrieks, when Louis grabs one of her ankles to tickle her feet. “That’s cheating, you fucker!”
“There is no honour in war,” Louis says solemnly, but surrenders when Harry starts to kick dangerously close to her face.
“See if I invite you round again, you bully,” she says, standing to tug her sack dress back down over her (long, long) thighs. Louis lies on her back for a moment, looking up at her. Beer. She needs a beer, and for Harry to get the barbeque going upstairs so she can stuff her face and not think about Harry’s thighs.
“I bring you delicious food and this is the thanks I get?”
“The thanks you get is me cooking them, so you don’t burn my house down -”
“Hey!”
“And the beer I have for you in the fridge. And the lounger upstairs with your name on it. Go on. Fuck off up there and I’ll bring the stuff.”
Louis fucks off.
And really, it’s brilliant up on the roof. Harry’d hired some sort of landscape consultant person, then spent weeks obsessed with all the plants she was putting up there, telling Louis about ‘interventions in the landscape’ and ‘urban green spaces’.
It’s almost wild up here, plants piled everywhere in a sort of organised chaos that isn’t actually chaotic at all, little pots near the barbeque spilling over with edible herbs, the mossy square of grass in the middle partly shaded by a plum tree (that hasn’t produced any plums yet, to Harry’s constant chagrin).
There’s a little wooden table with stylish but hideously uncomfortable stools that Louis has never seen anybody sit on (“They’re designer, Louis!” “Whoever designed these has never seen a human arse, Haz.”), and on the grass, out of the shade of the plum tree, two striped sun loungers with a table between them. Louis is feeling baked by the heat already and she gladly strips off her hoodie and trackies and stuffs them in her bag, flopping down on one of the loungers.
“Beer!” yells Harry, coming up the stairs. Louis makes grabby hands in her general direction, still groping through her bag for her sunnies, which, fuck, they’re still on her head. Harry dings her gently on the forehead with a bottle, and Louis takes it without looking, only glancing up when Harry opens the lid of the barbeque with a loud clanging noise. She promptly drops her open beer on her chest and shrieks at the cold, mercifully distracted for a few more seconds as she tries to save as much as possible and wipe the rest off.
“Wow,” says Harry. “Are you still drunk from yesterday, or are you just having a moment?”
“Shut. It.”
“Touchy,” Harry sing-songs. She turns back to the barbeque and bends to prod at a button and Louis’ eyes nearly cross. Her swimsuit is high at the neck, neatly cut over her thighs and arse, and is almost completely fucking see-through.
Louis takes a long, long draw of her beer because really, this is beyond the pale. She can't be expected to function.
“Haz,” she says. Croaks a bit, really. “I can see your entire arse. What the fuck happens when that gets wet?”
And okay, that phrasing is unfortunate. Harry looks over her shoulder with a truly diabolical smirk and opens her mouth.
“In the sea. Fuck. Or like, the pool or summat. You ever got papped wearing that?” And oh god, why can’t she shut up? Or stop staring? Harry flicks a switch on the barbeque and drops the tongs, then turns fully around. Louis should probably close her mouth. She’s tried so, so hard not to be this obvious but as Harry saunters a little closer (saunters!) she thinks that this is it, this is the breaking point she’s known was coming, that’s been coming since that fucking day in Tesco. The points of Harry’s nipples are a shadowy pink under the pale grey fabric, the texture of her springy dark pubic hair obvious, and no helpful emojis spring forth to save Louis’ sanity.
Harry stops at the side of Louis’ lounger, gently takes the beer from Louis’ uselessly dangling hand, then swings one leg over to the other side.
“It’s one of them ones you tan through,” she says, lowering herself down until she’s - god - she’s sitting on Louis’ thighs. “So I don’t have weird tan lines in my fancy dresses, yeah?”
Her knees are - spread. Spread wide over Louis’ lap.
“If it gets wet,” she says slowly, leaning a little closer, “it gets very, very see-through.”
And then Harry just fucking grinds down, right on Louis’ bare thigh with a noise that’s not quite a gasp, more a shuddering little sigh, but somehow it cuts Louis right to the fucking bone. She swallows loudly, tongue too big in her mouth and the crotch of Harry’s swimsuit is suddenly so transparent that Louis can see the slick pink of her cunt where it’s rubbing at - making the fabric so wet - fuck -
“Fucking hell,” Louis says, “fuck, can I, please--”
“Yeah,” says Harry, almost a whine, “want your fingers in me,” and Louis is going to die right here, with Harry in her lap. Pulling her swimsuit just far enough to the side to - god - slide right in. Harry is tipping forwards, moaning, squirming on Louis’ hand as she searches for Louis’ mouth. She’s so molten hot inside that the touch of her tongue feels almost cool.
“You’re so wet,” Louis says stupidly, drawing back from the kiss. It’s all she can think of; Harry dripping down all over her wrist.
“Been wearing this all day,” Harry gasps, pressing her face into Louis’ neck as Louis starts to fuck her in slow, deep pushes. “Thought about you watching me, thought about you fucking me, I always,oh - “
“Always fucking watching you, Harry, jesus. Where the fuck else am I gonna look?”
Harry’s taking these short, shivery breaths, mouth hanging open, her fingers gripping white knuckled around Louis’ upper arms. Louis gets two fingers up in her, presses forwards and starts a deep, slow rhythm that makes her arm ache and Harry’s thighs shake.
“Oh-” she says, as Louis keeps pushing deep into her. “Yeah, f-fuck-”
Louis squirms underneath her, so helplessly turned on she feels weak with it. One of Harry’s hands loosens its death grip on her bicep, then Harry’s rising up a little on her knees away from Louis’ fingers, cupping Louis over her swimsuit.
“Harry,” she grits out.
“Wanna-” says Harry, trailing off to slide her hands up Louis’ thighs, over her ribs to her tits. “God.”
Louis is frozen and pulsing at the same time, her hand gone limp as Harry drags her thumbnails lightly over both nipples at once. She thinks she might die from this, can only open her mouth and whine as Harry strokes her over and over, her whole body gone hot.
”Fuck,” Harry growls suddenly, then her hands are gone, she’s hoisting one of Louis’ legs over her shoulder, dragging her bodily down the lounger, then - fucking hell -
“Oh god,” Louis says, “oh my god,”, because Harry’s just fucking spreading her open, straddling her other leg and grinding right down on her, everything so fucking wet and slick it’s making Louis’ head spin.
Harry’s head is dropped forward but her eyes are wide open and glued to the crotch of Louis’ swimsuit even as she rubs herself against it, like her gaze could burn right through the fabric.
“I wanna fucking see it, Louis,” she says. “Bet you’re so pretty. Wanna see-”
“Yeah,” Louis whines, manages to get a hand coordinated enough to slide between them and tug the swimsuit to one side and do the same to Harry’s, then the sight of Harry’s pink little cunt as it grinds down slick against her clit nearly makes her sob.
“Jesus, that looks-” Harry says, squirming slowly, wet everywhere, all over Louis.
Louis swallows, blinking rapidly so she doesn’t miss a single fucking thing. Harry’s so red, slick-shiny through the dark little bush of her pubes, and as Louis watches she moves her hand to her pubic bone, pressing up to expose her clit and - fuck, fuck - slide it so so gently against Louis’, on the edge of painful oversensitivity but so fucking hot she can hardly breathe.
“Harry,” she grits out, trembling with the need to be still so this can keep happening but also to move so she can come.
“Wanna come on your pussy,” says Harry, voice as dark and low as Louis has ever heard it and Louis just grabs her, arches up desperately. Harry falls forward on her elbows and then they’re in this sweet, dirty grind, Harry rolling her hips, fucking her so good.
“Yeah,” says Louis, because apparently she has forgotten that other words exist, “Yeah, that’s -”
“That it?” Harry murmurs against her ear, “Just like that?”
Everything is so wet between them, slippery pressure; Louis’ toes begin to curl.
“Yeah -”
“Fuck,” says Harry, “yeah. Gonna make you. Gonna -”
She trails off distractedly, finding Louis’ mouth again and sliding her tongue so tenderly against Louis’ that Louis can’t do anything but seize up and come, one heel pushing into the lounger, the other shaking against Harry’s shoulder.
Harry works her through it, kissing her deeply until Louis is sensitive and gasping with it.
“Your fingers, Lou -” she gets out, and Louis gets two fingers back up in her, barely rubs at her clit before Harry is freezing above her, then shaking apart silently.
Louis is still twitching with aftershocks when Harry slumps down on top of her, letting her leg drop unceremoniously.
“Holy shit,” she says into Louis’ neck.
“Nn.”
They breathe slowly together for a while, Harry’s mouth parted against Louis’ neck.
“So like, was it the swimsuit, or - ?”
“It was the swimsuit,” says Louis. “I think you broke me.” Harry lifts her head to toss her hair over her shoulder and looks down at Louis smugly.
“Pulled out the big guns,” she agrees.
“You’ve… on purpose?”
“For bloody ages, yeah.”
“Harry,” Louis says, trying to muster up annoyance when the tips of her fingers are still tingling. “Why didn’t you just say something?”
Harry props her chin on the heel of one hand as she slides the other around Louis’ ribs. She draws her lower lip through her teeth, which Louis is staunchly refusing to find sexy.
“More fun this way, innit.”
“You’re such a fucking exhibitionist.”
“Mm,” says Harry. “The way you’d look at me, god. Turned me on so much.”
Louis groans, letting her head thump back against the lounger. “I’m going to die. You’re going to make me die.”
“Nah,” says Harry. “I’m going to make you a sausage butty. Then I’m going to make you come on my mouth.”
“Mercy,” says Louis weakly.
“There is no honour in war,” Harry parrots back at her, then rolls off the lounger, cackling.
“I already feel like I’ve been run over by a steamroller,” says Louis. She can’t move her arms. Harry tugs her (soaked, transparent, ruined, fuck - ) swimsuit back into place.
“Excuse me while I slip into something more… comfortable,” she says turning around to waggle her eyebrows dramatically at Louis and slip the strap over her shoulder.
“Harry,” says Louis, pained.
“Kidding. Cooking naked is hazardous, you know.” Harry steals Louis’ hoodie and pulls it on, then prods at the barbeque. The hoodie is too small for her. It’s… a look. Louis tilts her head back for a better view.
“I'm guessing you’re the voice of experience.”
“Sometimes a girl just wants naked waffles. I'll show you the scar.”
“Ooh.”
“Anyway: sausage baps now, oral sex later.”
There’s a pause. Louis waits for it.
“Hah, baps.” Harry turns around, grabs her boobs and makes a comedy honking noise.
Louis lies in Harry’s beautiful garden, sun shining down on her and thinks, I'm in love.